


Happily ever after...how does that begin?

by OtakuElf



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:56:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would the next generation be like?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

“As slavery goes,” Rafe Guerrain commented, “There are worse fates than to be married to Duncan Thierran and becoming Queen Consort. At least he never beat you up. Over. And over. For a period of fifteen years...

...Besides, I like him.”

Vesna did not stick her tongue out at him, “No, Duncan just stops talking whenever I’m in the room. It’s eerie. His father is good King Alistair. Could he not have inherited any measure of his father’s charm? And his mother is the daughter of the Traitor Loghain.”

Rafe winced, “Tact. Tact. What was the definition of that again?”

His sister really did not want to be teased about this. Their father, Teagan, the Arl of Redcliff, broke in gruffly, “All I ask is that you be polite.”

Rafe and Vesna went shamefaced, for their father looked tired and worn. He had not been a young man when the twins were born twenty years ago. Their mother had died of a lung fever ten years later and he had remained unmarried, still grieving for the woman he loved. Theirs was a small, but close family, and the children, no longer actually children, worried over Teagan as much as he worried about them in return.

“And no, Vesna, I have been telling you for years that you can marry whom you will. I don’t know where you got this idea that you should marry Duncan. It is entirely possible you won’t even speak to the Princes or Princesses, as the formal court dinners are quite large, and we will no doubt be seated fairly far down. Eron will be with his tutor most of the time, and I am sure that Duncan and Moira have their own duties. Gareth and Wynne will return from the Circle next month - I know you feel more comfortable with them. Celia and her family will arrive about that time as well.

I am going to see Alistair, and spend some time with him and with Anora. You may feel free to lock yourselves in our rooms and neglect your duty to Ferelden and Redcliff. I shed blood to put the king on the throne, and he is my friend. Just... be polite to his children, as insufferable as you may find them.

Vesna, if you persist in this wish to chase Duncan, you can make the formal petition and see what happens. He has, however, many other options.”

Teagan frowned at the two faces before him in the carriage. They were so like his dear wife. How he missed her. Twins often did resemble each other and though Vesna looked very feminine, she was the spit and image of her brother, except for her eyes. There was nothing girlish about Rafe, though.

The twins found nothing to say to that, and the final hour of the trip was spent in silence.

…

Alistair slammed his shield into the opponent with the great sword, offering the other attacker, a smaller fighter with two swords an opening at his back. The invitation was not accepted, and working together the team overwhelmed the king, trapping him with the smaller sword to his throat, “Yield!” the voice did not sound nearly as out of breath as Alistair felt.

“And if I don’t?” the king grimaced, “What exactly do you intend?”

The tip of the blade drew a small trickle of blood, “Well, I could cut your head completely off, father.”

The two hander was laid carefully on the sanded courtyard, and a powerful arm banged on studded leather armor, shoving the slighter fighter back out of range, “Are you insane?” Duncan Thieran’s tone was not as angry as his words, “Do you think I want to be king?”

“Yes,” a helmet was pulled off the slighter combatant to reveal copper gold hair matching the king’s, but long and pinned up into a braid, “As long as mother does the work.”

“You’ll be in charge soon enough, both of you,” Alistair was even after all these years ridiculously infatuated with his children.

Moira looked stricken, “I’m sorry ,father. I didn’t mean to draw blood. Not exactly.”

“You will be in such trouble with your mother!” her father teased, “She’ll expect you to meet with at least three potential husbands to make up for it!”

The stricken look was replaced by a scowl, “What if I don’t want to marry at all?”

Duncan made a face at his sister, “I will not be the only one!”

Alistair had begun racking weapons, “Your mother’s and my marriage was arranged. There can be love. And your mother is doing her best to find the right person for each of you.”

The “before” was unspoken, but very much present. Before their father left for Orzammar and the Deep Roads.

“When do you and Uncle Zev plan on leaving father?” Moira was subdued.

“Not for at least a month. Your Uncle Theron will be traveling with us,” Alistair was not looking at his two children, who exchanged looks.

“Father,” Duncan began, “I want to join the Gray Wardens.”

Alistair sighed heavily, “Not an option, Duncan. You’re the heir, and you have a responsibility.”

“... and not a choice,” Duncan scowled.

Was it possible that talking with his children was making him wearier than the preceding workout? “With Gareth at the tower and Wynne, you don’t really have that option. I’m sorry, Duncan. And Moira. Nothing would make me happier than for you to marry for love.”

“And live happily ever after?” Moira Thieran gave her father a rueful smile.

“And live happily ever after,” Alistair’s smile in return was full of love. But with the deep roads looming, he was afraid that happily ever after was not in the cards.

...

Anora Mac Tir Theiran loved her husband dearly, even after a forced marriage, six children, and an almost thirty years of marriage. She had known about and lived with his death sentence for their married life, but as the end approached, as the dreams got worse, and her Alistair received the calling more strongly each day, it got more and more difficult for her to deal with. Anora hated not to be in control. 

Running her hands over Alistair’s shoulders, still strong after all these years, “How are you feeling?”

Alistair flexed, then cracked his neck, “Stiff. Hitting Duncan is like slamming into a wall. But it’s Moira who challenges me most. Duncan’s too much like me. I can tell what he’s thinking.

Moira’s smart, and she could actually kill me if she weren’t fighting fair.”

Anora sighed. The child most like her had been studying at the tower for years. The relief of Gareth’s passing the Harrowing and his sister Wynne as well, did not make any easier the thought of either fighting against demons in the Fade.

“How are the babies?” Alistair’s not so subtle ploy to distract his wife almost never failed, and she sank down beside him on the settle, his arm curving around her. Celia had married for love, though at a younger age than Anora would have liked. She had married into the Cousland family as well, which was not a bad thing. The Couslands supported the throne, and Alistair had always been grateful for that.

Alistair kissed his wife on the top of her head, “We have lived in some interesting times, haven’t we?”

“I will miss you, Alistair,” was her reply.

“None of that, Anora!” Alistair held her tight, “Don’t miss me while I’m still here!”

“Save my tears for later, then?” Anora’s eyes were glistening.

“Try to think of some way to put a spike in the Orlesian’s wheel. I’m sure we can come up with something devastating and complicated!”

And they held each other and made ridiculous plans until called back to duty.  
…


	2. Escape

Vesna Guerrain had asked for many impossible things. Love, she was beginning to understand, was going to be another one of them. 

It was not her father, Teagan, Arl of Redcliff, who had suggested that a marriage into the king’s family would be wise and prudent, and everything that a young girl could desire. Teagan loved Alistair, King of Ferelden, and respected him. King Alistair and Queen Anora had six children: Gareth, the eldest at 26 - who had been the heir until his talent for magic had appeared - which meant that he had gone to the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad; Wynne next at 24, who was a mage as well; Duncan - two years older than Vesna and her twin brother, and now the Crown prince; Moira - named after Ferelden’s rebel queen, and the same age as Vesna; Celia who was two years younger and had been married since seventeen to the Cousland boy, heir to the Teryn of Highever; and finally Eron, who was fourteen and studying at a school in Denerim.

The Arling of Redcliff was not a small or unimportant holding. Teagan had inherited it from his brother, Eamon, since Eamon’s son, Conor was ineligible by virtue of being a mage. Conor was currently studying the Fade in Tevinter.

Teagan and Eamon had been brothers to Rowan, King Maric’s Queen, and mother to King Cailan, King Alistair’s predecessor. Alistair was the bastard son of King Maric, and had been brought up (as a stable boy) by Eamon. 

Teagan had met his wife when she had returned to her hometown in Redcliff after building a business, a forge, in Denerim after the battle for the city. It had been love at first sight for Teagan. Vesna thought it very romantic.

When Vesna and Rafe had turned ten, their mother died of lung fever. Vesna became the Lady of the House, taking on all of the responsibilities of her mother under the tutelage of Anna, the chatelaine. This was not romantic in the slightest.

Vesna’s brother, Rafael Eamon Gerrain, was heir to the Arling. He had been born five minutes before Vesna, or she would have been the Arlessa. Vesna did not want to be Arlessa of Redcliff. It was a fishing and farming culture. 

Vesna wandered the Palace hallways, bored and alone. She had no idea where her twin had gotten to. This was the first time the family had stayed in the palace, although they had visited before, most often during Landsmeets.

…

Duncan liked the garden. He loved the story of his father searching for roses in winter when he was born, and there were bushes trained up against the stone wall, around columns throughout this small, almost forgotten courtyard. They were Ferelden roses, not the Orlesian type. Orlesian roses could be found everywhere else in Denerim, but here in the palace there were only Ferelden roses.

Tonight he had escaped from company as soon as possible. It had not helped to have Moira poking him and making faces to get him to talk to Vesna. Moira was his closest friend and she knew how much in love Duncan was with Arl Teagan’s daughter. Duncan could not remember a time Vesna had not struck him dumb. Even when they were children he had gone silent around her.

Tonight was not an exception when at the small gathering after the formal state dinner, Duncan had exchanged pleasantries with her father, The Arl of Redcliff, but had fallen speechless once again when Vesna had greeted him with her nose in the air. Vesna despised him, and with good reason when he fell silent as a stone around her. Rafe had not even been there to provide Duncan with moral support.

Duncan fitted the ivory pieces of his flute together. Testing the tone and his wind, he began to work his way through a tune he had started long ago, when he’d realized he was in love. It wasn’t right yet. It might never be, as he was more a man who followed directions than created.

“That’s very pretty,” a voice came out of the darkness. Uncle Zev would kill him for being caught unaware, he reflected, and even more so by her. 

Still, she could not possibly see him. “Thank you,” manners were drilled into him. 

Helpful sometimes. And since he was his father’s son, and since they were in darkness and he could not see her he went on impudently, “I wrote it for the most beautiful woman in Ferelden.”

“And who might that be?” her voice was like water on a dry day.

“The Lady of Redcliff,” Duncan got that out straightforward and in all seriousness.

There was a moment of silence, then, “The Lady Vesna of Redcliff?” her voice was confused.

Vesna honestly did not recognize his voice. Not surprising, actually. It was highly unlikely that she could see anything but a blur in this darkness. It was only that the prince was so obsessed with Vesna that he recognized her lovely, clear soprano. Duncan grinned, “Yes, She’s here visiting the king with Arl Teagan and her brother.

I started writing it when she was here four years ago for the grand tourney. She wore a blue gown that matched her eyes when she awarded the prize to Prince Duncan.”

“Really?” Vesna had moved back behind a collonade, “Do you know her well?”

“We... have never spoken,” Duncan could say that with complete truth, “I would not know what to say. She is a lady. She wouldn’t be interested in discussing swords and weapons.”

“You could discuss your music. She plays, I hear. The harp,” Vesna could not believe what she had just said.

It was so dark. The scent of roses had drawn her, and the peace, then the flute, but she’d not been able to see more than a dark shape on the pale stone of the balustrade. Of course, she thought, if she could not see him, he most certainly would not be able to see her either. The idea of a mild flirtation was very attractive.

She’d been snubbed once again by Duncan this evening, and now Rafe had disappeared.

“What is your name,” Vesna asked in what she hoped was a casual tone.

Duncan thought quickly, “Carroll” he said.

“And yours?” he asked.

“K...Kait,” she said in reply.

Duncan thought that Carroll was safe enough. A name his father used when he would go sneaking about in town.

Kaitlyn was her mother’s name, and Vesna’s middle name. Giving her mother’s name seemed wrong, but Kait would do.

Vesna sat down on a stone bench behind the column, leaned back, and listened.

...

Rafe felt a hand on his shoulder, and he’d not even gotten out the servant’s door. “Excuse me, my lord,” he saw a female guard, studded leather, helmet and all who said “May I ask where you are going?”

“Out,” Rafe struggled to master his unaccustomed anger over being trapped and bored, “Out, ser,” his tone much less resentful, and he managed a smile, “Why? Is there a problem?”

Moira could not believe the idiot did not recognize her. How long had they known each other, fifteen years since they’d met when they were five? Of course, she remembered that Rafe had been seated with the Ambassador from Orzammar, who was always very generous in sharing his extremely potent flagon of ale. Yes, Moira thought that perhaps Rafe might already be a bit on the tipsy side. His face was flushed, and his hair...but that was always a mess. Possibly he saw what he expected to see. 

“Well, my lord, you are leaving through the servant’s quarters, and you are one of the noble guests. You are leaving the compound into the city without an escort, and you are dressed…”

Rafe looked down at his clothing. He had picked common enough items. Not what he had worn to the formal court dinner - at which he and his sister had been seated well down the board as expected. Was there something odd about plain clothing? It was all of it clean, not ragged. “It is serviceable, and I expect it would not call attention to me.”

Moira sighed, “You are not dressed as befits your station. You are, in fact, dressed as a commoner from the country, which is going to guarantee that you will be rolled before you get five blocks without an escort. Also, you are very clean. Please reconsider this, my lord.”

“Would you prefer I wore velvets and silks under a cloak? A mask? High heeled shoon and a long, curling false mustache like a character out of an Orlesian bard’s tale? I am going to find a drink, not get into trouble. Please, ser, I will not bother anyone. I just need to get…Out,” Rafe’s voice was pleading.

This was a different Rafe to the one she was used to, and it startled her. A smile struggled to break free, starting in the corner of Moira’s mouth. How often had she wanted to get Out herself. Father had never forbade them to copy his example. Indeed he had taken them on occasion out on his forays into Denerim, and Moria knew that mother had gone as well. It was Uncle Zevran who usually prevented what he called “ excursions”. “Well, then,” she said finally, “I will be your escort. It would be as much as my life was worth to allow you to go by yourself. And if I reported you... well, you would not get Out.”

“Aren’t you on duty?” Rafe asked as she opened the door for him, “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“No, my lord. I was on my way to my room from some extra swords practice. I am off duty,” that much was true, Moira thought, for all that she’d needed the workout after being polite and a princess all afternoon through dinner.

The look of relief on Rafe’s face was… Moira didn’t know what to think about it. Their past was not a friendly one. He continued, “I know that you probably just wanted to get to your room and rest. But I appreciate your offer. Thank you.”

“Thank me when we return safely,” Moira said.

…

“What is your name?” it was an easy enough start to the conversation thought Rafe.

“Carroll,” Moira said without hesitation.

“Carroll? Isn’t that a man’s name? How did you get it?” Rafe smiled at her, but not in a jeering way. He sounded genuinely interested. Moira could not remember ever seeing a smile on the man’s face before. It was a nice smile. For a complete idiot, she reminded herself.

“Named after my father,” Moira said quickly, which was true enough. 

Carroll was the name her father used often when he made his sortees into the city. Carroll had been a templar in the Circle of Magi when her father had been there. Alistair had said he thought Carroll was lyrium addled, and had thanked the Maker that he’d never become a templar.

“My name is Rafe,” Rafe introduced, “I’m with the party from Redcliff. We just got here today.”

“Yes, my lord,” Moira answered primly.

“Ah, knew that already, did you? Don’t know why we aren’t staying at our own estate across the river. Not that there would be any more to do there. I am not fond of the city,” Rafe looked eagerly about at the gray stone walls lining the back of the palace, “Well, where would be a good place to go?”

Moira had no idea. Better to be honest, “My lord, I have no idea where a young noble would go to drink. I think the Gnawed Noble in the lower market, but it’s not a place I have been to myself. Or…would you prefer The Pearl?” that last name was loaded with significance.

“The Pearl?” Rafe had caught her tone, alright, “Why? What kind of place is The Pearl?”

“A brothel, my lord,” Moira kept her voice noncommittal, non-judgmental, wondering what his response would be.

Rafe stopped short in the middle of the street, “Good Maker, I don’t want to go there! And please, stop calling me ‘my lord’. Call me Rafe. I will be calling you Carroll anyway.

So I am guessing we’ll go to the Gnawed Noble. What kind of ghastly story is behind THAT name?”

“I couldn’t say,” Moira had wondered herself.

They managed to find The Gnawed Noble, after a brief stop at The Wonders of Thedas, where Rafe found much to entertain himself, giving Moira commentary on each and every item in a sarcastic wondering undertone. At one stone offering Moira, who had been biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, snorted, and then began to laugh so hard she had to lean against the shelving.

Rafe lifted both eyebrows at her in exaggerated shock, and sent her off into another gale of laughter before the Tranquil proprietor calmly asked them both to leave.

Laughter was always good, Rafe thought. Carroll seemed to be a bit more relaxed now. Also good. Rafe didn’t want to cause trouble, he just wanted… well, he was not sure what he wanted. Another pint of ale to start.

Choosing to sit in the back, next to Carroll, in a dark corner where they could survey the room, Rafe first asked for the strongest ale the bar could provide. He then proceeded to give the “guard Carroll” a rundown of the young nobles seated throughout the establishment. It was a very rude, but highly accurate penning of each by character and family line. One young heir to the Teryna of Gwaren, whom Moira despised, was thoroughly skewered and the armored woman leaned back into the shadow to ensure that the nobleman did not see her laughing face. She knew that particular noble would recognize her. They had danced together far too often. She took the presented opening, “Yes. He is one of the men rumored to be considered for marriage to the Princess Moira.”

“Maker help him then,” Rafe picked up his mug and drank it all the way to the bottom at the mention of Moira’s name.

“No, your pardon,” he went on while signaling for another drink, “I would not wish him on even Moira. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself.”

“What do you mean, my l… Rafe?” Moira kept her tone even, and took a sip of sweet cider to block her face, which was turning red, then as Rafe drank his second mug to the bottom and signaled for another, “Do you think it is wise to drink it like that? It’s Dwarven Ale, and said to be very strong.”

“Wise? No. And on an empty stomach? I can never eat at the formal dinners. Too busy watching my manners and avoiding my sister’s foot,” Rafe gave her a large sloppy grin, “As in … she kicks me when I’m not behaving.

I am not being wise at all, escort Carroll. You can be wise on your sweet cider.

As to what do I mean….well, considering that the Princess Moira has beaten me regularly every time I have seen her since I met her at five years of age,” his hands moved vividly around, “I think she can handle just about anything short of the archdemon. 

They do say she is beautiful. Hard to tell when your face is being ground into the grou…er…dirt,” and the third mug followed the other two.

“What might you have done to provoke her,” Moira’s stiff voice matched her posture.

Rafe waved an airy uncoordinated hand, “I exist. And she can. She can beat me to a pulp, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. She is more of a man than I am. You see…she told me that last time.”

Moira had forgotten that little exchange. “You don’t think you did anything to piss her off? Nothing to offend her? Say…one of your little comments?”

“Piss her off? What barracks language, my dear Carroll! 

My comments? Carroll, words are powerful. They can be veeery powerful. But commenting on a girl’s hair ribbons or her skirt is not an adequate trigger for getting your face beaten in. Seriously,” Rafe started to drink her sweet cider, “Oh, this is good.”

Moira sighed and signaled for another mug of cider. “Are you sure you didn’t say something like ‘Oh, look! Here is that boy in the dress again?’”

“Did I? How clever of you Carroll. I had completely forgotten that,” Rafe slumped, “I see that I am not entirely cul..incul...I am not without fault in this.”

“Anyway,” Rafe went on, “The point is that I am heir to territory in the country. Different manners than here in the city. Different responsibilities. Father has always wanted us to link our family to the Theiran’s. Oh, not for any hideous political ulterior motive. Truthfully, because he is fond of King Alistair, and wants to support him.

How can I bring someone like that home? A granddaughter of the Traitor Loghain? Someone who thinks that violence is an approp…app…appropriate response when one of our farmers sounds off, or there’s trouble with the Circle of Magi?” the words tumbled faster and faster, “She already hates me. She has made it clear over and over again that she despises me.

She’s Maric’s granddaughter too, and much as I love King Alistair, a wholly honorable man whom my father loves like family, what is to stop her from cheating on me when she gets bored with life in the country? How long would it take before …” he took a deep breath, “Before she cuckolds me with one of my guardsmen? 

She is best off with someone of her own circle. Not a … country bumpkin from a far Arling.”

Rafe sighed, an exhalation of ale fumes, “And did you know, Carroll,” he leaned toward Moira and said conspiratorially,”The princess does not look at all like a boy. Well, in armor she does,” Rafe banged his fist gently on the shoulder of Moira’s studded armor, then shook his hand saying “ow” reproachfully.

“No,” he went on, whispering loudly, “When we last went riding she was wearing breeches and a tunic, like a man...they were her little brother’s, and they were... tight.”

Rafe cleared his throat and drank more ale, “No. She does *not* look like a boy.”

“Well, thank you for *that*,” Moira muttered.

Rafe had run out of air again. He took a deep breath, and noticed something in her expression. “Are you okay, Carroll? I’m so sorry… I didn’t think. Pay no attention to me. I’ve put you in a difficult position to begin with, and now I’m dumping my no doubt foolish fears on you. There is not a chance in Thedas that I will be chosen to wed higher than my station, if at all. Most women of my class want to marry Prince Duncan. Handsome, wealthy, and crown prince? Much better for them, Duncan is. Poor sod!

I just…I would really just like to marry for love. Like my mother and father. Like my Uncle Eamon and Aunt Isolde were. Or to be in love like King Alistair and Queen Anora.”

Moira’s voice was low, “the King and Queen’s marriage was arranged. They did not start out to be in love. They… complement each other.”

“Really? You would never know it,” Rafe leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes, “Maker, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this drunk. And on only three ales. And one sweet cider.”

Moira bit her lip. Well, her father had always said you should not eavesdrop, or you won’t like what you hear. Of course, her mother then had said that you heard what you needed to hear. And wasn’t all that sneaking around the city incognito eavesdropping anyway, Alistair?

Mugs were brought to the table again, and Moira dropped a coin on the table for the waitress. Rafe raised his head and blinked at her, “Take your helmet off, Carroll. It looks odd here, and I don’t want to draw attention to us.”

“You mean more attention than your loud comments and waving your hands about?” Moira felt her nose prickle, and took off her helmet to forestall tears.

Surely Rafe would recognize her now. He looked up at her from his mug of ale that he had managed to snag and spill only slightly, and stared as her pinned golden red hair caught on the helmet and cascaded down around her shoulders. “Andraste!” he exclaimed, and she waited for some comment showing his recognition of who she was, “You’re beautiful! Really beautiful!

I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes as beautiful as yours…” and Rafe ran uncoordinated fingers along the bottom of her lip, across her cheek and up over her temple.

Moira felt odd, wishing he would do it again, but before she could say anything Rafe started sliding against her. With a heavy sigh she shoved him back upright, where he lay his head upon her shoulder and closed his eyes, “Thanks, Moira,” came a mutter into her shoulder.

Moira sat unmoving, and it came after a short wait. Rafe stiffened where he leaned against her, then sat up quickly, banging his head against the wall as he pressed away from her against it. He looked almost sober as he stared at her, “Oh no! Oh, Maker and Andraste, no!”

The princess turned her head away and began to gather up her hair, coiling it to pad her helmet, “I’m afraid so, Rafe,” she was proud at how even her voice was. 

No hint of tears.

“I am so so sorry,” Rafe’s voice could barely contain his horror.

“Don’t be. You were honest enough. We should get back,” Moira slid along the bench and stood waiting for him, but he was still staring at her. Grabbing a handful of tunic, she managed to drag Rafe out, then back across town to the palace, in spite of his taller frame and intoxication. It was a blessing that the young nobles were dicing in the back room while she dragged him out. Rafe was mostly mercifully silent, and Moira was seesawing wildly between sulphurous anger, and mortifying hurt. 

As they rounded the corner of the vegetable garden a shadow detached from the wall behind them. Moira let go of the Arl’s son, pulling her blades and dropping into a guard stance over Rafe’s muttering body.

“Please Moira,” it was Uncle Zev, “Do you really think your father or you would ever be able to leave me behind?”

“Can you get him back to his quarters without a scandal?” Moira wondered if he had heard everything.

There was a glint of Zevran’s eye in the moonlight, “Do you doubt me?”

“Never!” Moira’s fierce hug and kiss were quick, “I’ll help you pick him up.”

Rafe was taller than either of them, but the wiry Antivan elf hauled him bonelessly up. Moira grabbed the front of Rafe’s tunic in her fist, “Rafael Eamon Guerrin, heir to the Arling of Redcliff?” she forced him to look her in the eye, “If you have any stones at all, you will not disappear after this as you did when we were twelve. You will take your punishment like a man!”

Rafe’s brown eyes remained staring into hers when she let go. Moira could not read their expression in the dark. 

“Come boy!” Zevran marched Rafe off into the darkness, leaving Moira to make her way to a bath and bed alone.


	3. Actions and Reactions

Rafe woke to a feeling of unease, as though something important, possibly disastrous, had been forgotten. A large carafe filled with water on his bedside table gave a jog and his stomach clenched as he started to remember the night before. A note with the water directed him to drink the contents in their entirety. He had vague memories of being doused with freezing water before being put to bed.

Rafe scrubbed a cold face with his hands. An immediate thought was that he should burst into the Royal quarters and throw himself at Moira’s feet begging... begging for what he did not know. Death?

She wanted him to take his punishment like a man. What did that mean? How would she humiliate him next? Guilt, no, shame rose up to point out that Moira had not been at fault last night. Except of course for not telling him who she was, and she must think he was a complete and utter ass. How could he have not recognized her?

A knock at the door made him flinch, then his sister sailed into the room, exclaiming about the smell of ale, opening the shutters and letting in hideous light and air. “Whose shirt is that?” she laughed.

The fine cambric shirt was enormous on Rafe’s rail thin frame. It was not that Rafe had no muscles, but they were compact, and not noticeable under clothing. His was not a fighter’s build. “What?” Rafe affected innocence, “Is this not mine? Maybe the palace staff provided it. I must have lost my own.”

Vesna rolled her bright hazel eyes, so different from her brother’s dark brown, “I helped sew your night shirts, Rafe. And no one at Redcliff merits a cambric nightshirt until their wedding day. At least according to Anna.”

“And of course, you had asked Anna,” Rafe laughed in spite of his mood.

“I wished to have some clothing that did not make me a laughing stock here in the capitol. Anna told me to wait until we got here and ask the palace seamstresses to make something in the fashion.

Skin it off?” Vesna held out an imperious hand. Rafe handed the shirt over for her examination, “Royal household,” Vesna said thoughtfully.

“Vesna,” Rafe said nervously, “I’ve done something...really bad.”

“You’ve done something really bad, and you have woken up in another man’s nightshirt...” Vesna teased.

Her brother put his head in his hands, “I went drinking with Moira, got drunk...very drunk... and insulted her to her face.”

“Well, how much worse could it be than ‘here comes the prince who wears a dress?’” Vesna pulled a face.

“I didn’t realize it was Moira, and I told her in detail why I would never want to marry the Princess Moira, I mentioned the Traitor Loghain and adulterous King Maric, and I think I said something about the archdemon...then I described how I lusted after her. Do you remember when she wore her little brother’s trousers?”

“Oh, Rafe! Oh, Maker, Rafe!” Vesna covered her mouth with a trembling hand, trying not to laugh.

“How do I tell father?” Rafe moaned.

“I guess that takes care of selling myself to Prince Duncan,” Vesna shook her head, “We’ll be going home!”

Rafe shook his head, “I can’t. She... Moira said I... I can’t leave.”

“Well, if you can’t leave, I am guessing you are stuck with her. And she with you...

You are an idiot, Rafe Guerrin, and the Maker have mercy on you,” Vesna kissed him on the forehead, dropped the nightshirt onto his head, and left the room, her words ringing over and over in his head, “stuck with her. And she with you.”

…

“Father,” Rafe presented himself to the Arl of Redcliff, Teagan Guerrain. 

He had scoured himself thoroughly, and was dressed in carefully chosen clothing - conservative and old fashioned, he knew, but of a quality to be noticed. He could do nothing about the red-brown cowlick that stuck up from his forehead, but the rest of his hair was carefully brushed and pulled back in its queue. 

Arl Teagan, his red hair having grown steel gray, was one of a number of men and women who had begun to gather at the Palace to spend these last months with Alistair before the Gray Warden left for Orzammar and the Deep Roads. Widowed some time ago, the Arl preferred to spend his quiet life at Redcliff, rather than at their estate in Denerim. This was the first time he and his family had stayed at the Palace. Teagan regretted that there was little for his children to do in the city, difficult for those used to activity in the country, but with Alistair sleeping so little and looking so ill, the Arl wished to spend as much time with his old friend as he could. Who would have thought that Alistair would be dying before Teagan, who remembered Alistair as a child? At the very least he could show his support to Anora as well.

“Why are you dressed like that, Rafe?” a spark of humor danced in Teagan’s eyes, “Are you going to a funeral?”

Rafe swallowed down the comment about being the corpse ready for the pyre. “I would like your permission... I would like you to present me at Court. Today. Father.”

Well that had certainly startled his father, who gazed at him in silence for a moment, “Why? What is going on?”

Teaghan did not ask, “What have you done?” or “What happened now?” but he might as well have.

“Because,” Rafe said, “I have a petition to make.”

…

“Where is father this morning?” Moira asked her brother as she put on practice padding.

Duncan was waiting for her, and Zene had laid out a variety of weapons for them to spar with this morning. Usually the King made an appearance, often practicing with them “to keep his hand in”. “Formal court with mother this morning,” Duncan examined a chip out of the practice blade, then handed the piece back to the blond Elven weapons master.

When Alistair did appear later that morning, Moira assumed it was the break between morning and afternoon court petitions. She was not beating her brother, usually she was quicker, though he had much greater strength. Something was just off in her sword work. It was difficult to keep her mind on the weapons, and Duncan and Zene had both smacked her bruisingly for her inattention.

Alistair loved his children dearly. Their smiles of welcome were even more dear to him as he looked to the coming trip to Orzammar and the Deep Roads and death. “A petition came up in court this morning, Moira, that concerns you. I thought it best to discuss it with you before making a decision.”

“That sounds ominous,” Moira smiled at her father again, stopping her sword drill, “What is it?”

“Rafe Guerrin has petitioned your mother and me for your hand in marriage,” Alistair had stared open mouthed when the young man had spoken, until Anora had surreptitiously pinched him.

“I have a good idea of your response from past ...interactions, but of course am asking you before we make any public statements,” the King of Ferelden continued.

There was silence for a moment. “You may give Rafe Guerrin permission to pay court to me,” Moira looked only along the blade of her sword, not at her father, not at her brother, not at Zene perched on the table by the door, “I... am favorable to his proposal.”

Duncan’s Great Sword clanged on the ground, and her brother looked stupidly down where he had dropped it.

…

“Moira?” Duncan asked pleasantly, “Are you comfortable?”

Duncan was a large man, as big as his father, he looked like his father, but with his mother’s golden hair, and he held his little sister immobile on the floor of the practice yard, one arm pulled up behind her back. Moira’s struggles did not move him. “Let me up, Duncan you darkspawn!” Moira tried to wriggle out from under her brother, but his grip on her arm did not allow it.

“After you answer my questions,” Duncan had sent Zene to watch the door after their father had left, and now was determined to understand what was going on.

“So... why?” Duncan struggled to keep the disbelief from his voice.

“Duncan,” Moira was cajoling, “You have to let me up. I have to go get dressed for afternoon court. Zarina has to do my hair.”

“You miss formal court every chance you get. And frequently attend in armor. What is going on?” Duncan shot a glance at Zene, who indicated ignorance with a shake of his head.

“It’s his punishment. Rafe did something...wrong, and he’s offering me the chance to … I think to hurt him? Humiliate him in public?” Moira blew dirt and hair out of her mouth.

“Moira, Rafe is my friend. Why can’t you just bloody his nose like you usually do?” Duncan didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

Zene added in his quiet tenor, “Or tie him to a tree as you did when you were ten?”

“This is different from when we were children playing in the hills of Redcliff. It’s not like you to publicly humiliate someone. Certainly not in court,” Duncan’s baritone became elder brother sharp.

“I’m not going to!” Moira struggled and went nowhere, “I’m going to accept him! Now let me up so I can go get dressed!”

Duncan’s weight lifted, and when she stood and dusted herself he was leaning against Zene’s table, the pair of them mirror images - the big solid human and the wiry elf with their arms crossed examining her. “This is... a snap decision, isn’t it?” Duncan said with disapproval, “That’s not like you either.”

“I don’t think it is, actually!” Moira said with surprise, “I think I have been planning this for a very long time. And it feels like the right thing to do...”

…

Rafe cleared his throat. It seemed loud.

Immediately after the unexpected acceptance of his petition, the stunned heir to Redcliff had received a note directing him to escort the princess to the formal dinner that evening in the great hall. It had seemed orchestrated at the time. All planned. But how could she have known what he was going to do? 

Vesna had been seated across from Rafe next to Prince Duncan, who had been silent for the entire meal. Their father had been near the head of the table with Alistair and Anora. There were assorted nobles from all over Thedas seated on either side of them. Duncan had choked on his glass of wine when Rafe had compared the diners to a mixed bag of nuts. Moira, her head turned as though she were listening to the Tevinter Ambassador on her other side squeaked and jumped. Rafe looked at her with suspicion. He knew that kick had been meant for him not her, and Vesna was annoyingly accurate.

Then at the end of the meal Moira had invited him to join her and their parents in the Royal Quarters. They were joined by Zevran Arainai and several of his children as well, dressed in uniform of the King’s service. They had a winged hawk or something embroidered on the sleeves. Rafe had not seen that before. Now they, Rafe and Moira, were sitting. In comfortable chairs, at least. The older men and the Queen were at the fire at one end of the room. Alistair had been covered with a knitted throw by the Queen over his protests. The slender younger elven men and women in uniform spoke quietly among themselves in chairs nearby while Rafe swallowed hard and said, “I wonder where Duncan and Vesna are.”

No one seemed to know the answer to that question, but looked at him politely.

Rafe cleared his throat and tried again, “So. Moira. What ...what exactly *are* your intentions?”

Was there a moment of hesitation among the elves? Was that Rafe’s imagination? Was everyone in the world listening to them?

“My intentions? Moira laughed, “What do you think my intentions should be?”

I find,” Moira gave a quick glance over toward their parents, then leaned over and spoke softly in his ear, “that I am in need of an escort to a number of state functions. You will suit me admirably.

Then before Father’s trip to Orzammar next month, you and I will be married.”

Rafe had nodded his head at the first part, as though it made sense to him, and dropped his jaw at the second, “But why? Why accept me?”

“Why did you ask to marry me?” Moira asked in the same tone.

“I...” Rafe sighed, “I wanted to make it up to you for the things I said, for what I did last night.”

Moira gave him a demure smile, “And in this way, you shall.”

…

“Our children,” Alistair spoke low to his wife, Zevran and Teagan, “Are up to something.”

Anora smiled, “And you have no idea what it is, do you?”

Teagan admitted, “I certainly have no idea. Rafe’s proposal came as a complete surprise. Rafe has all the impulsiveness of his mother, but where Moira is concerned he will scheme for weeks on how to get the better of her on your visits.”

“Moira usually complains about Rafe long before we visit Redcliff. She’s been remarkably silent of late,” Anora took her husband’s hand in hers, “I think she’s focused more on losing you.”

Alistair sighed, “I’m not certain all this preparation is a good idea. It might have been better for me to have disappeared with no warning.”

Anora squeezed his hand, “Your loss will be difficult enough.”

“Yes, well,” Alistair cleared his throat, “The question is... why are they sitting over there, not looking at each other, talking out of the corner of their mouths?”

“I think,” Zevran said smoothly, “That they are making their apologies for a misunderstanding last night.”

The three parents stared at the children, who suddenly seemed to realize that they were being watched. Rafe jumped guiltily, then jumped again when Moira calmly reached over and took his hand. He looked down at their joined hands, then into Moira’s eyes. A crooked smile appeared on his face.

“Father?” Moira called across the room, “May we have the musicians in? I want to see if Rafe can dance.”

“Of course I can dance,” Rafe muttered to her.

“Well, best to try it together before you escort me this week. Can you dance the Remigold?” Moira helped him to move furniture out of the way, “Good!”

Moira’s elven lady in waiting was dragged into the gathering to even female and male numbers, over Teagan’s protests that he was much too old to dance well, but he proved able to keep up with the others easily. Rafe enjoyed the activity, swinging Queen Anora with a flourish when it was his turn to be her partner. One dance moved into another, and the evening passed quickly in merriment. King Alistair called for wine afterward when the musicians were finally released. “Ah, reminds me of the time I danced the Remigold in a dress!” he said cheerfully.

“He lost a bet,” Anora said sweetly to Teagan.

“I lost a bet to Anora!” Alistair grinned at his wife, “And I do not know how women move so well in those tight skirts!”

Teagan was listening to Rafe, saying seriously to Moira, “So? Will I suit?”

“I think you will do very well. In fact, I find I am looking forward to dancing with you tomorrow. And the next day, and every night this week,” Moira’s smile could only be called cheeky.

…

Meanwhile, Vesna leaned back against the stone wall in the dark, listening to the unseen flautist and breathing in the scent of roses.


	4. And what about those things he said?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Moira and Rafe discuss the things he said.

Walking the parapet burned off some of Rafe’s nervous energy. He missed hunting at Redcliff, missed swimming in Lake Calenhad, missed riding in the hills above Redcliff village. Moira enjoyed being with him, listening to his comments, responding to his often quirky questions. And then there came a question she did not want to answer.

“Why would a princess, royalty of Ferelden, marry me?” Rafe asked Moira after wandering around the subject all afternoon.

“Moira, aside from believing that my blood is not any more noble than the least peasant in Redcliff,” he had not stopped, “after all, blood is just blood. I can see that you would appreciate loyalty, which is about all that I can give to you. Why are we getting married?”

Moira made a face, “Are we really going to do this now?”

“I think so,” Rafe reminded her of a Mabari sometimes, all tenacity and too many brains.

Moira was curious, “Is it so far fetched that I would be attracted to you?”

Rafe looked sour, but Moira was beginning to learn that the look was self-directed, not anything to do with her. For years she had thought the boy hated her. It was himself that he had doubts about, not her. “Moira,” he was using that tone that had always annoyed her before, lecturing, patronizing as she had formerly seen it, “I have a mirror. The one in our suite is quite larger than anything I require.

Vesna seems to like it, though.”

Moira changed direction, and Rafe swerved to follow, still talking, “Honestly, Moira,” he went on, “I get disgustingly drunk, not particularly attractive in any way BY the way, insult you and both of your grandfathers, and the next day we are getting married,” Rafe nodded to the guard holding the door for them.

“You are so intelligent,” Rafe felt a jolt in his chest at Moira’s quick smile at his compliment, “There has to be reasoning behind it. Some thought going on here, because in all the years I have known you, you plan. You have reasons.”

They had stopped, “Why are we outside your quarters?”

Moira laughed. She could get words in, Rafe did not have the flaw of many men that are unable to converse. He had shown her his interest in her opinion, and while he might talk at length, often he did so because of nerves rather than the thought that his stream of consciousness was vitally important and all interesting. “You’ve never seen my room, have you?” Moira glanced at him slyly.

Rafe colored, “No. No. I have not. Don’t you think it would be rather inappropriate?”

“Are you planning on taking advantage of me?” Moira pouted, looking disturbingly like one of those idiot female courtiers.

“Moira,” Rafe followed her down the hallway, “Did you want me to take advantage of you?

Because that pout thing you just did will make me run away in fear instead.”

“Hello Father!” Moira smiled brightly as she looked past Rafe’s head. 

Rafe froze, then turned rigidly to look through the open doorway into the very large room the Theiren’s kept for family use. There was no one there, and Rafe relaxed, then jumped as he heard King Alistair’s voice from further into the room.

Worse, his father was sitting with the king before the fire, looking amused. They must have heard what he had said to Moira. Rafe wanted to bang his head against the wall.

“Fath...Ser. Your Majesty. My apologies.”

Alistair waved his hand, “No need, Rafe. Moira, do your best not to scare Rafe off, please? I have a bet going with your mother.”

Moira wrapped her arms around Rafe’s waist. She noted with humor that he always froze up in front of her father. Peering around him, “Father, I am going to show Rafe our rooms. Is that alright with you?” Moira’s voice dripped innocence.

Rafe did not miss the flick of the King’s glance from Moira’s face to his own, which felt boilingly hot. Alistair turned to Teagan, “I don’t know, Teagan. Will your boy be a gentleman?”

Rafe cringed as his father replied in a considering tone, “I believe so. if not, Moira can always call on us for help. The door is open.”

“Thank you, Father, for your support,” Rafe’s disapproval radiated in waves, as Moira dragged him across the hall to the children’s quarters, away from the laughter that he was sure followed them.

Alistair leaned back, enjoying the heat of the fire. “Teagan,” he said thoughtfully, “Anora says she had this planned all along. Were you aware of that?”

Teagan looked startled, “No. Duncan and Vesna as well?”

“Apparently,” Alistair laughed, “She probably already has plans for Eron too.  
I do not have any doubts that they will be happy. How do you feel about it?”

Teagan took his time, staring at the fire before responding, “I am hoping that they will be happy. But I have told them all along, their choice of a spouse is up to them. Eamon got to choose, in spite of Loghain and Maric and Rowan’s disapproval. I married my Kaitlyn. How can I dictate a choice to them after we fought for our rights not only from the Orlesians, but also from those who replaced them?”

“Strong words,” Alistair laughed, “and best not let Anora hear them.”

“No, I would not hurt Anora’s feelings for the world,” Teagan smiled at his friend.

…

 

Rafe looked curiously around the large room, the gray stone walls softened with colorful tapestries. Three doors stood closed, out of a rather large number set around the main room. “Which one is yours?” and when Moira pointed he walked over and peered into a small room, about ten foot square. Larger by far than a farmer would expect, but much smaller than any room Rafe had ever seen assigned to nobility. In fact, it looked more like a servant’s chamber than a princess’s room.

“Go ahead. Go in,” Moira gave him a push.

The room was furnished with a small bed, a desk, a bookcase, and a trunk. There was also a vanity set in the corner. Knives and daggers, and a variety of swords were hung along the walls all the way up to the twelve foot ceiling. “I have no words,” Rafe turned around looking up, “Except for the tiny bed, this room looks just as I imagined it.”

“Gifts,” Moira leaned against the doorframe, “And historical pieces. Those two,” she pointed, “were Duncan’s. THE Duncan, the Gray Warden, not my brother.”

“We will have to find a good place for them when you bring them to Castle Redcliff,” Rafe was thoughtful, missing the sudden brilliant smile from Moira.

“But not,” he pointed out, “a mirror among them. Do you use the shining surface of your blades for a mirror, princess?” he asked with a very bad Orlesian accent.

“No,” Moira beckoned him, “There’s a dressing room on either side. The mirrors are in there.”

“So I see,” Rafe walked up to the standing mirror and stooped down, “As large as the one in our suite.”

Moira moved the hinged mirror on its stand so that Rafe could stand upright and see himself. “Oh,” Rafe sounded startled, “I didn’t know you could do that!”

Moira laughed. It was such a Rafe-like response. Pushing a chair behind his knees she made him sit down, adjusted the mirror again, then leaned over behind him. Rafe could see her reflection over his mirrored shoulder. “What do you see, Rafe?” she asked, and he pulled his eyes away from her beautiful face to look at his own.

“I see a skinny man, brown hair, a plain face, no character to speak of, and a lack of anything that even resembles common sense,” and that, in a nutshell, was what Rafael Eamon Guerrin thought of himself.

“What about these?” Rafe watched Moira’s hand in the mirror reach up and trace the lines at the corners of his eyes, it felt intimate, having someone touch his face in that way.

“Lines? Maker! I am getting old! Old before my time! You are marrying me to become a widow and take over Redcliff! That is it, isn’t it?” Rafe did not believe that for a moment, but he also did not see what the lines by his eyes had to do with anything.

“They’re laugh lines, Rafe,” Moira was lecturing now, “Because you laugh at things instead of getting angry at them. You see more than one side of the issue.”

“Well,” Rafe raised his eyebrows, “Laughing at things and putting off dealing with them is a time honored tradition, woman!”

Moira leaned over his shoulder and looked into the mirror, “Besides that I see beautiful red brown hair,” her fingers unraveled his braid.

“Well, now I just look silly,” Rafe tried the pout she had done earlier, but it did not look any better on him.

Moira placed her hands on his shoulders, “These are not skinny shoulders, Rafe. You are not an unattractive man.”

Rafe took a deep breath, “What about the things I said about your grandfathers? About Loghain and Maric?”

“What do you know about them?” Moira took Rafe’s straggling hair and began to rebraid it.

“What everyone knows,” Rafe was grave, “All the history of Ferelden.

King Maric inherited the throne from Moira,” Rafe reached backward and gently touched her fingers at the name, “the Rebel Queen was descended from King Calenhad, and was murdered by Orlesians.

Maric was rescued in the woods by Loghain and his father, Gareth, who died to save Maric. Loghain, Maric, and Rowan, my aunt, fought to free Ferelden from the hated Orlesians. I know about River Dane, and could probably list battles for you,” but Moira shook her head no.

“Maric became king, married Rowan, and had a son, Cailen. She died, but not before Maric had another son with a serving girl at Redcliff Castle, Alistair. Maric sailed away and disappeared. Caillin took over and married Anora, your mother, and Loghain’s only child.

Caillin went to Ostagar to fight the blight with the Gray Wardens, and Loghain left him and the Gray Wardens there to die, including Maric’s other son, Alistair, out of obsessive fear of the Orlesians.

Alistair and the Gray Warden Theron Maheriel raised an army, brought down Loghain, and your father married your mother to keep the noble bloodline. I am sure I’m missing a lot.”

“Yes,” Moira murmured, “You missed a number of things. Loghain was of farming stock. His father tried to pay the taxes levied by the Orlesians, but they were designed so that the land could be confiscated and ‘gifted’ to loyal Orlesians instead. When Gareth could not pay the taxes, and refused to leave his land, the Orlesian chevaliers raped his wife, Loghain’s mother, to death in front of the boy and his father.

You know about the abuses of the Orlesians. Your Uncle Eamon and Aunt Rowan fought them too.

Maric loved Rowan, but childbirth was not easy for her. I think they were worried that Caillan would die, and so asked your Uncle to care for Alistair.”

“Uncle Eamon stuck King Alistair in the stables, Moira, that’s not really caring for him,” Rafe loved his Uncle, but had wondered about his lack of charity. 

Moira pulled gently on the braid, “They put him out of the public eye, Rafe. Away from Orlesian assassins, who regularly attempted to kill Prince Cailen every year, and some not so regularly.

I asked father about it, why Maric and Loghain would ask Rowan’s family, of all things, to care for Maric’s bastard child.

He said that he thought that your family was asked because they were loyal, and kind, and would not do him any harm.”

“Until Aunt Isolde, anyway,” Rafe muttered.

“Can you blame her, Rafe? She thought father was your Uncle’s bastard, and Eamon couldn’t tell her,” Moira was too reasonable, “As for Maric, I can’t justify what he did, apparently Alistair is his only bastard, but his indiscretions were more numerous. But I am happy to have my father.

Do you think that any of us, knowing our family background, will be whoring around?

Do you still think I will cheat on you when I get bored?”

Moira could feel the heat from Rafe’s blush of embarrassment. Rafe closed his brown eyes tight, then took hold of Moira’s hand where it still held his braid, “I am so very sorry I said that. You are nothing like those fool courtiers, and I should never have said anything like that. Not you. Not Duncan. Not Gareth nor Wynne. Your family have been such good friends to ours, and I was an idiot.”

“Perspective helps, and you tend to take things in perspective, Rafe. Which is why I think you will make a good Arl.

And hopefully you will be patient with me. I am not skilled as your sister is. I can’t keep house for you, but I will try. I will learn to do so,” Moira leaned her head against his.

“Wait, is this why you asked me about the Pearl that night?” Rafe was glad for some other thought to chew on, “Was that a test?”

“I think, Rafe,” Moira did not answer his question directly, “That you and I made a good couple.”

Not directly, perhaps, but it did answer the question indirectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many question about why they set things up the way they did....


	5. Chapter 5

“Kait?”

Vesna was leaning relaxed against the stone, “Yes, Carroll?”

It was the third night she had met him here, in the darkness, in this forgotten courtyard, listening to him play his flute surrounded by the scent of the roses. He would play for a while, they would talk, sometimes he had asked her to sing. She had gotten him to sing with her just a little bit last night, and Vesna had felt a shiver at his deep voice, a baritone, untrained, but it didn’t jar with her soprano. “What sorts of things do you do for the Arl’s household?”

Vesna sighed, “Nothing exciting. I assist the chatelaine, Anna. I’ve learned to do accounts. I can plan meals. I take care of the herb garden. I can make tinctures, brew tisanes, and dry herbs for storage.”

“Do you like what you do?” his deep voice was pleasant to her ear, even from across the small court.

“You first,” Vesna teased, more because she wanted to keep him speaking, “What do you do, other than stand about with a sword? Do you like it?”

Duncan had been hoping to get Vesna to speak more. He was not trying to trip her up, or to catch her out in the little fiction she had spun. The prince could not fault her, as he was doing much the same. With one difference, he knew exactly to whom he was talking. Vesna thought that he was a guardsman for the palace. Duncan had some regret in this, but also a good deal of pleasure in the small interaction with a girl he had grown up with, but never spoken to.

Duncan preferred the quiet, friendly Vesna to the overly polite, formal court lady she had grown into. There was a smile on his lips as he humored her, “I practice drills. I can fight with a variety of weapons to protect the Royal household. I’ve...” there was a moment, how to put this and be truthful, “I have learned to think. To deal with situations. To prevent problems from occurring.

It’s more than just steel, you know that? And more than muscles.”

Duncan could hear the smile in her voice as she chided him, “And do you like it?”

“Yes,” Duncan could be honest, “I like what I do. For the most part.

Your turn. Do you?”

“Yes,” Vesna was hesitant.

“But?” Duncan encouraged.

“I like it well enough. But there is no one thing I do well beyond all others. I am surrounded by people who excel. I am special at nothing.

I am... invisible,” Vesna could not believe she had told this faceless man her feelings like this. She hadn’t even spoken to Rafe about this.

“Surely there is something you feel good about doing?” she had startled him.

“Oh,” Vesna was reassuring, “I feel good about doing it all. I like to be useful. There is something in knowing you are working for others, helping them when they are ill, providing for them.

But I could disappear tomorrow, and no one would notice the difference. All those things would be done, probably better by others, but they’d still be done. Life goes on in a keep, it doesn’t worry about who is … well, keeping the wheels turning.”

She interrupted his indignant reponse, “When you talk about things, your music, your sparring, you have a spark. I can hear it. You are not a bad musician, Carroll.

And no one gets chosen for the King’s guard without a good deal of skill. You have talent, and you can compete against yourself to become better, you can go up in rank, but fighters with the ability to protect the Royal family do not grow on trees for picking like apples.”

It was quiet for a time, then, “Do you really think that nobody would notice if you were not here?

There was a laugh in the darkness that echoed a little through the columns, “A few people, possibly, but they would move on with their lives. I have family. They would miss me. They’re not what I meant though. 

Anna has trained me well. It won’t be long before I am contracted for a good marriage, one that is advantageous. It will be remembered for a short time that I came from Redcliff Village. I will marry and have children and grow old with whomever I can get to take me.

I have a say in which man I marry, but that too is a matter of use. How useful I can be, what I can bring to the household.”

“If you do not wish to marry,” the deep voice was disapproving, “You do not have to do so.”

“And where will I go? What will I do then?” Vesna was not bitter, but she did sound a little sad, “I could become a moderate brewer of healing teas, someone who can plan a meal for one hundred people who will remember only that the Arl of Redcliff has a good cook.”

“I have no answer for you,” Duncan had not thought about much beyond Vesna’s beauty, her voice, beyond the fact that he’d always wanted to be with her. He had not thought, not really of the skills she’d bring to Ferelden if she’d consent to marry him. After all, his mother was queen, and not likely to leave that position soon. Any wife that Duncan took would train under Anora after the wedding. Duncan also knew that his mother was in favor of Vesna as his wife. Vesna was incorrect that nobody would notice her. Anora never took things for granted, or left anything to chance if she could at all help it.

“Are you married, Carroll?” Vesna sounded sad still.

“No,” Duncan responded, “Though likely to be soon. I am guessing that I will have to give up writing songs for the Lady of Redcliff when I do marry.”

“What is she like, the woman you will marry?”

“Well, I had not thought much beyond that she is beautiful. She is much like you, actually, and I thank you for showing me to see her more clearly,” Duncan found himself sweating. 

This was too much like lying for him to feel comfortable. Even if what he was saying was the truth.

“I...I wish you happiness, then,” Vesna felt the urge to cry now.

“Thank you,” Duncan said, “I hope that we have it.”

…

Rafe enjoyed being Moira’s escort. This first event was at the home, the very large estate actually, of a friend of Queen Anora’s family. It was simply local people, and only those in support of the throne. Rafe wore what his sister selected, and submitted to her braiding his hair “just so”. He thought Moira looked beautiful, her hair was braided also, but glowed by polished gold. Rafe enjoyed the way the princess’s eyes sparkled at him when he told a joke, or when he took her hand for a dance.

There was much dancing. The musicians were very good, and Rafe was unsure how Moira would do with the comparatively less talented musicians in Redcliff Arling. Well, come to think of it, Rafe knew that Duncan played the flute, but was not certain if Moira played an instrument. When he brought her a drink during the break he broached the subject, “You obviously love to dance!”

“Yes!” Moira’s eyes shone, “It’s probably the closest thing to sword practice that I can do in my life as a princess.”

Well, that certainly explained that. “I’m afraid the musicians at Redcliff castle are mostly local and very homespun. We do dance, mind you, but not the type of music I’ve heard here in the capitol.”

Laughing Moira told him, “Don’t worry. I won’t lose my head over some traveling minstrel, no matter how beautiful his music is.”

Rafe reddened. His words were always going to haunt him. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he said shortly.

“Rafe, you obviously learned all the current dances as well as the old folk pieces. There must be music of some kind,” Moira chided him, “Why are you worrying about this?”

Why was he worrying about it? “I want you to like my home. I love it. I would like for you to see what I do in it,” Rafe waved his hand at the obviously very expensive furnishings, “But it’s hard to look at this and not compare. Some would compare it unfavorably.”

“Some are not me,” Moira smiled slyly up, “Perhaps you should dance with me some more?”

They did, dancing every possible dance until the night was old. It was during the last dance that Rafe finally pulled Moira out of the dancing circle and into a darkened alcove. The chaperones were blocked from view, and this was something Rafe had planned since that first night. Pulling the laughing Moira closer he leaned down to kiss her. It was not a tentative kiss. Rafe discovered that Moira did indeed know how to kiss. Soft lips met his, and it went on for an enjoyably long time.

“My,” Moira smiled up at him from under her eyelashes, “Ser Guerrin! Where did you learn to kiss, out there in the countryside?”

“Probably the same way you learned,” Rafe said dryly, “There is no shortage of women willing to kiss the heir to the Arling. It’s what comes after that I needed to be worried about.”

Moira rested her hands on the velvet of his coat, “And did you worry about it?”

“Ah, well, yes. For me there was no ‘what comes after’,” Rafe admitted, “I was brought up to be a gentleman about such things. And having a bit of fun with the local farmer’s daughter or fisherman’s widow was not something a responsible man is willing to trade his birthright for.

So there you have the truth. I am completely inexperienced in the ways of the bedchamber. Does that,” he paused, “Disappoint you?”

“It does complicate things,” Moira grinned, “Seeing that I am completely without experience there as well.

But...”

“But?” he prompted.

“I have a book. I found it on a shelf in the library that mother and father thought was too high for us children. It is...” Moira thought about how to describe it, “Somewhat naughty. Orlesian. It gives instruction on how to...”

Rafe raised an elegant eyebrow, “What to do on the wedding night?”

“Exactly. I shall have to show it to you,” Moira managed to look and sound demure.

“For now I’m perfectly happy with kissing, Moira,” Rafe bent to her lips again, and continued with Moira’s enthusiastic participation until there was a discrete cough from outside their corner.

And more practice in the royal carriage on the way back to the palace. All in all, Rafe considered it a very successful evening.

Moira was very pleased. She thought Rafe would do very well.


	6. Dressing up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparing Rafe for his official entrance into society as Moira's betrothed.

The day after was memorable. It had started with Moira and Vesna invading his bedroom together with the intent of “making him over”. Rafe saw no need to be “made over”, although perhaps allowing him to get up and get dressed would be a fine start.

Then came the discussion on his hair. Rafe wore his red brown hair long, and if it was cut short there was an unfortunate tendency to curl in a manner that Rafe felt was “girly”. Like his father Rafe wore his hair braided across the front in the Bannorn style, then pulled back into a queue. Moira was taking full advantage of her position as his “betrothed” to un-braid it and run long fingers through the soft red brown mass. True, it was nice to have his hair brushed by someone else, Rafe had never noticed that since he had done it by himself for at least a decade and a half.

Duncan and his elvhenar twin, Zene, poked their heads into the room at one point. Moira asked, “Duncan what do you think of Rafe’s hair like this?”

Duncan surveyed the intricate braiding with compassion, glanced at Vesna and then wordlessly ran fingers through his own shortly cropped yellow hair, so like his father's. Rafe agreed enthusiastically, “Duncan, I will follow you forever. You have my loyalty for your entire life, my prince! We’ll just get it all chopped off!”

The women’s protests drove the Crown Prince and his friend from the room, and left Rafe to insist on a plain queue if they were not going to let him cut it short.

Then there was the matter of clothing. “There are just some colors, Moira that are a poor choice. What would you think if I were to get myself up in golden armor?” Rafe was trying to be pleasant, Moira could tell.

She could also tell that she had annoyed him. Smiling, she replied, “I’d think you were fooling yourself, much like King Cailan.”

“No purple. No royal blue, Moira. I’m not giving anyone the thought that by marrying you I am an easily malleable threat to the throne,” Rafe frowned, was this another test?

Vesna laughed, “Easily malleable?”

“They see what they expect to see, Vesna. Right now it is in Moira’s best interest for the nobles to see me as clay in Moira’s hands,” Rafe thought he had kept the bitterness out of his tone, but he saw his sister glance at him sharply.

Moving on quickly, best to present a pleasant enough appearance, yes? It helped Rafe keep the fashions to a conservative cut, the less likely to be a fool bumpkin in overly fashionable clothing. Where he could, Rafe deflected the discussion to his sister’s wardrobe, and wondered how much it would take to keep Moira in clothing.

“She’s not a bad choice, Rafe,” Vesna told him later, “I asked her how much she spent on her wardrobe. I wanted an idea of how much to expect to spend on yours. We’ll be well within the amount father gave us.”

Vesna gave him a little smile, “And for all that she likes to put on a good appearance, clothes interest her far less than they do me. Her closet is nothing like the Teyrna of Gwaren’s for example. And Teryna Cousland’s is somewhere in between.”

Rafe had seen Moira’s closet, when he had seen her room. The wardrobe was a small room with racks that housed the clothing for all the Royal Household. Moira’s section of it, was relatively small. Vesna managed to keep Rafe’s new wardrobe within her budget, but allowing Rafe to look more handsome than she had ever thought to see him. His tolerance for clothing, however, did not last as long as Moira’s and Vesna’s. He escaped to follow Duncan and Zene.

Vesna did not mind. It gave her a time to talk to Moira. “You keep saying you don’t do things without thinking first, Moira,” Vesna held up a piece of brown velvet to examine the weave, “Yet I have seen you fight in tournaments. You don’t possibly have time to think there.”

Moira sighed and leaned back in her chair, “I do my thinking before the tournament, Vesna. I practice until my bones know what to do in each possible situation. Then when the opening is there, I take it.”

Vesna grimaced and dropped the bolt of velvet onto the growing heap on the bed, “I still don’t see it.”

“Well, “ Moira was thoughtful, “What was wrong with that fabric?”

“It will pill,” Vesna pointed out, “and it won’t last. Rafe is hard on his clothes.”

“You know Rafe, and you have experience with fabric, so you have a good idea how something will work out, right?” Moira liked having someone to talk to about Rafe. 

“It’s not really the same, Moira.”

“Well, how about serving a holiday meal? You know what is seasonal, yes? What if the right fish doesn’t show up at the right time?”

“You’re disappointed,” Vesna pointed out, “And you make do with something else.”

“You take advantage of an alternative,” Moira knew it was important for Vesna to understand this.

“So… Rafe is your alternative?” Vesna ventured.

“No,” Moira was emphatic, “Rafe was my first choice. What I was waiting for.”

Silence.

“Oh.

“But then why…?” Vesna wasn’t sure how to phrase it delicately.

Moira flushed, “I was fighting it. He was fighting me.

It’s time,” the princess went on, “for us to put aside all of that.”

They sat together thinking, not speaking as the afternoon sunlight traveled across the wall, until Vesna said cautiously, “I have always wanted a sister.”

Moira smiled broadly, “Be careful what you wish for!”

Vesna nodded, “I like you. I like Wynne. I don't really know Celia. Since I’ve known you I’ve always been a little jealous of all of your family. I could not ask for better sisters than you. And when you marry Rafe, you will be related to me.”

“And… Duncan?” Moira gave her a sly smile, then turned at the genuinely unhappy look that Vesna gave her, “What is the matter?”

“Would it be so bad, Moira,” Vesna’s voice was very unlike herself in the radiating misery, “If I just remained at Redcliff, became your chatelaine, and stayed with you? I could take care of father? When you have children I could take care of them, teach them. I wouldn’t interfere with you, truthfully.”

“What?” Moira was startled, “I’m fairly sure your contract will be ready for signing any day now, Vesna. Mother has been working to set up a marriage between you and Duncan for a very long time.

In fact, I think she’s stalled a number of royal matches because she wants you to marry Duncan. Surely you knew that? I know she’s spoken to your father about it.”

Vesna swallowed, “She has? No, father has not been happy with my chasing the prince, as he puts it.

… and Duncan doesn’t like me to begin with. He’s never liked me. Why would she want him to marry someone who …

I can’t politic like your mother does. I can’t bring power or gold to the alliance. All I can do is run an Arl’s household. What good would that bring to Ferelden?”

Moira began to laugh, “First of all, what makes you think Duncan doesn’t like you? Vesna, Duncan’s been crazy about you for as long as I can remember. He’s just… a little shy. Around you anyway.

On your second point, nobody can politic like mother does. She’s not looking for that. Duncan will have advisors, and he’s been brought up with an eye to what he needs to know to be king. Please keep in mind that he is not King Cailan, all glitter and flash and no brains.”

Vesna snorted, the laugh working it’s way out in spite of her best efforts. “Have you ever wondered what King Cailan was really like? We hear the family stories, and know the official histories.”

“Well, Father says that he was… a nice person. That Cailan was his King, and that he really didn’t know him well. In spite of them being brothers. Or half-brothers.

Mother won’t speak of him at all beyond that she was married to him, and she loved him at the time, but her love for Father is different. I understand he was very pretty,” Moira adopted a sage expression, and an old woman’s tone, “Youth and good looks flourish only a short while, but wisdom and kindness are lasting.”

… 

Rafe heard nothing of this, as he had chased off after Duncan and Zene, eventually finding them working out in the courtyard set aside for the use of the Royal Family. Accepting their invitation, Rafe shed his brown tunic to pull on practice padding, and examined the wooden sword that the weapons master handed him. Duncan took him through a number of forms, and did not find Rafe to be hopeless on any of them. Rafe, for his part, did the best he could with his limited talent or interest. “Do you ever do bow training here?” Rafe couldn’t see any long alleys for target practice.

Duncan’s eye gleamed, “Tired of being beaten by me?”

“Yes!” Rafe was unapologetic, “I know we’re both bad at a longbow, but at least I can hit more game than you can.”

Neither man spoke about his sister. It would be a breach of conduct to do so, neither wishing to betray things the sister might have said. Zene, started to chatter about court gossip, and then it just all got silly.


	7. The Fish Pond

They were having so much fun!

Dancing, spinning, whirling around laughingly trying not to step on Moira’s feet. Of course, what had come later had not been as enjoyable. Men separated into groups to discuss the state of the realm, or business, or sport.

Dancing was so very athletic. Rafe much preferred it to the Great Game of politics. It did not take the place of riding and hunting though, and Rafe missed his active life at Redcliffe. And then he had made the comment about wishing he were home and able to jump into Lake Calenhad for a swim on the way to the carriage. It had started something.

Next thing he knew they were on the Palace grounds undressing. Moira had insisted they go for a swim in the Fish Pond, Rafe in his small clothes, and Moira in her chemise. How did he get into these situations?

Rafe pulled the tunic over his head, doing his best not to look at Moira. His breeches dropped, and Rafael slipped into the water in his smalls, hoping Moira was not looking at him goose pimpled in the darkness, but still refusing to look her way. The pond was a carved stone bowl. Rafe wondered if the dwarves had cut it through the stone of the plateau. A knee deep ledge ran about the edge.

Moira splashed in after him, as Rafe leaned back into the chill water and pushed off. Moira had not noticed the ledge, Rafe figured that out afterward, because she took a step forward and disappeared under the water in the darkness. Rafe took one stroke forward to reach her and pulled her back up, Moira’s arms going tight around his neck. Rafe stood up, it was only up to his neck here, but that would be above Moira’s head was his belated thought. Moira meanwhile had her head buried in his neck, arms around him in a stranglehold.

Rafe could feel his betrothed’s body against his, the wet chemise melting practically away. Hot, Rafe felt hot, flushed, and he definitely noticed that Moira was a woman. This was not what he had pictured their swim when Moira had suggested it.

Moira was taking deep breaths, not noticing, thank the Maker. If he could only disentangle their bodies quickly. Nothing about Moira ever worked that way, not conveniently nor quickly and when she had caught her breath, she pulled his head down and kissed him. It was a good kiss, and when Moira wrapped her body tight to Rafe’s he heard a small, “oh!” breaking their lips apart. “Of course you know now,” Moira’s laughing breath teased his ear, “We *have* to get married.”

“I thought that was already the plan,” Rafe was breathless now.

“Moira,” it was King Alistair’s voice, out of the darkness.

Rafe almost dropped Moira, certainly he tried to put distance between the two of them. Difficult with Moira’s arms still tight around his neck. “Yes, father?” Moira was at least sounding contrite.

“What are you and Rafe doing in the Fish Pond?” disapproval, it dripped from the king’s words.

“Swimming?” Yes, she said it as a question, and Rafe winced.

“Come out of there, please,” Rafe cringed at the tone.

“Yes, father,” Moira sounded repentant, but one hand began to move down Rafe’s body from his neck. 

With a yelp he jumped backward, giving them both a ducking before they crawled out. Rafe dragged his tunic on over a wet body while Moira wrapped herself in her overcape and carried her dress. The march back was silent and uncomfortable, as was King Alistair’s nod at Rafe when they reached the passage to the Redcliffe quarters.

Rafe was able to bathe and dress for bed before Vesna found him, full of gossip about her evening. He did not bring up his adventure. She would find it out eventually, as would his father. Rafe wondered if King Alistair would tell Teagan. Maker, could he do nothing correctly here in Denerim? His life was full of mishaps.

For all of that, his thoughts when he fell asleep were of Moira, tight against him, her lips on his, in a wet frock.


	8. At the ball....

Rafe was becoming accustomed to the whirlwind that was The Season in Denerim. Looking with regret at the swirling dancers that did not include him, he turned his attention to the group of which he was ostensibly a part. They were young bloods who were fawning over Duncan, laughing at his comments, offering their humble opinions as to the state of the realms of Thedas, and how all problems could so easily be solved if they were in charge. Zene in livery of a royal Ferelden bodyguard stood behind them looking dangerous. The nobles, humans all and the pride of their Families, ignored the Elf much as they did the Elvhen servants passing through the crowd delightfully costumed as mages, presumably to make the statement that Magic was to Serve Man.

The representative of the Grand Cleric, who was ailing, watched the servitors sourly as she chatted with Queen Anora in a small group on a dais at the end of the room, which was filled with potted trees to resemble a scene of pastural simplicity. Rafe had never seen so many trees in a pasture. Anora was accompanied by “Ser Arainai” who was a picture in black velvet that contrasted with his braided silver hair. Zevran’s pleasant, possibly saucy conversation distracted the Chantry Mother, bringing a smile to that grim face.

Rafe noted in passing that Zene did not take the servitors lightly, and so probably his father was equally aware of them, indeed of just about everyone in the hall. He looked over to where Moira, beautifully dressed in night blue velvet, was making the rounds with Vesna, in a sunny yellow silk, who had been escorted to the ball by their father. Arl Teagan had disappeared into another room with a number of the older Arls and Banns.

Rafe took a small baked... item he defined it, and bit into it gingerly. Spicy! A tumbler was snatched from another servitor suspiciously close by the purveyor of the Antivan pastries. Rafe swallowed a mouthful of cool beer, then looked down at the female elf who had smiled slyly at him as she handed him the drink. He almost choked at the shortened, clinging version of mages robes that she wore. A host of inappropriate and wildly snarky comments flooded through his mind. “Maker!” Rafe thought, “She’s going to catch a chest cold with that decolletage.”

Rafe schooled his features and dragged his eyes upward to give the girl a courteous smile of thanks directly to her, meeting her eyes. The servant looked startled, then her sly smile was replaced by one that was much more genuine.

A touch at his elbow brought his attention back to the blonde scion of the Teryna of Gwaren. Selan was a thoroughly dislikeable blue-blood who was also quite frankly beautiful. He knew it. Curling blonde hair like a stereotypical Orlesian chevalier, eyes of Ferelden blue, with a face that was a work of art. It was amazing how such a beautiful exterior could cover such a piece of work, and not in an artistic sense.

“Best not let Moira see you seducing the help, Guerrin,” Selan’s voice was a smooth tenor that could be modulated to carry or not at it’s owner’s whim. It usually carried when commenting on something hideously embarrassing. Rafe was grateful that it was being contained now. That poor Elvhen girl was being put through enough without this boor calling attention to her.

Selan must want something. “You’ve got a good eye, though. She is quite attractive.”  
Selan was complimenting him. What did he want? Rafe waited. Selan went on after clearing his throat, the very picture of a humble man wishing to broach a delicate subject, “There comes a time when a man must settle down.”

Rafe’s usually quick mind was not putting the pieces together. Why would Selan be speaking to him about this? Was he going to make a reference to Moira? To Moira’s and his recently announced engagement? Moira had told Rafe that she would have run away to join the Gray Wardens rather than marry, “That slimy drake,” as she put it.

“Of course,” that slimy drake’s voice went on, “It is important to select an appropriate choice if a marriage is to last. You have beaten us all to the prize in carrying off Moira,” for the moment Selan looked as though he had unpleasant thoughts as to how that had occurred, then, “Now it is time to look elsewhere for a suitably intelligent and well bred woman of marriageable age.”

Rafe blinked at Selan like a dolt. Selan encouraged by this went on, “Vesna has certainly grown very beautiful. I remember her as a little girl, when we were all children of course, playing with her stuffed horses.

My mother will be speaking to your father about the possibility of a match between our families by week’s end. Would it be possible for you to speak to Vesna for me. About my interest in her?”

“Oh,” Rafe stuttered, “You want to marry Vesna? She has a terrible temper, you know.”

It was the only thing he could think of to say. There were several reasons why one could not heap scorn on the scion of a powerful family, not the least of those being the scandal of an incident in public (made all the more important to prevent because of Moira’s family), nor the most of them being that they might need his support at some point in Duncan’s reign. Better to tread the fine line and keep the man off balance. Rafe knew that Selan already thought the heir to the Arling of Redcliff was a countrified bumpkin. “But of course I will notify her of your interest, Selan. I’m not sure of what her dowry would be. Nothing like Moira’s of course.”

There, let the man think he was so crass as to be discussing settlement money. “Ah, well,” Selan laughed, “I have money of my own, after all. And good blood is as important as a dowry.”

“Blight!” Rafe thought to himself, “Apparently that’s not as crass here in Denerim society as it would be at home.”

“Does she have any other suitors?” Selan was asking, “She is twenty, and I would have expected that most women in society of Vesna’s blood and beauty would already be married.”

Rafe took a sip of beer offhandedly, “I understand that a contract is all but signed. I can’t divulge the family though. So we should find you another candidate.”

Taking a chance he lowered his voice and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, “Although, I think you might want to remember... there is mage blood in the family. Connor is in the chantry in Tevinter, or he would be inheriting Redcliffe, and not me.”

Selan had the bad taste to place his open hand over what presumably housed his heart, “She is so very lovely and charming that I quite find myself unconcerned about Connor. He’s not in direct descent, so there is that to be considered.

Well, I am shattered,” he did not look it particularly, “that she is taken.”

Rafe wanted to shatter him. First for Vesna, and then for Moira. Instead he said, “Enjoy your freedom while you may!” in a perky, cheerful tone of voice that was alien to his current mood.

A light touch at his elbow brought his attention to an Elvhen servitor, “His Highness, Prince Duncan, requests your presence,” it was said with a bow.

Rafe courteously thanked Selan for his company, and returned with relief to Duncan’s side. In a moment when they were alone he spoke out of the corner of his mouth, “Selan is interested in Vesna.”

Duncan laughed at him, “Don’t talk that way. You look very odd, and nobody is close enough to hear you anyway.”

Then, it seemed, he heard what Rafe had said, “Well, he can’t have her. Vesna is mine.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow at the vehemence in his friend’s words, “Does Vesna know that?”

Duncan moaned, “I tried to talk to her about it, but …”

“You lost your nerve. How are you going to beat the Orlesians if you can’t talk to a girl you’ve known for a decade?” Rafe was not merciful.

Duncan’s laugh was short, “The Orlesians do not terrify me.”

“No no no no no,” Rafe said patiently, “Moira terrifies. Vesna wants you to speak to her.”

“I did,” if Duncan could look shamefaced...no, Duncan did look shamefaced.”

Rafe was startled, “You did?”

Duncan frowned at the crowd, “She doesn’t know it was me.”

“How did you manage that?” Rafe laughed, “Wait! Are you the mysterious Carroll?”

Duncan nodded, and Rafe let out a whoop that turned heads, including those of Moira and Vesna.

“I should have guessed. It’s the same name Moira used for me with the Gnawed Noble. Is there a story behind it? You both using the same name?” Rafe sounded amused.

“I’ll tell you some other time,” and Duncan turned to greet a new gaggle of Fereldan nobility with a smile.

Rafe was left to contemplate the confusion that was their lives for the rest of the dance.  
...


	9. And in between...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the Season in Denerim...

Rafe stood still, his arms in the air or at his sides depending on instructions. He was at the point where he no longer listened to their chatter. He was lost in thought.

“Rafael!”

Rafe looked down to where his sister and his betrothed were seated, directing the seamstresses making adjustments to the new clothing.

“Yes? What?” they had pulled him out of his distraction.

“You’re talking to yourself.”

“I am?”

“And humming,” Vesna sounded “Yes. You were staring at Moira and humming a bawdy!” Vesna was outraged.

“Oh.” Rafe noticed that Moira was blushing. 

How had he made her blush? “Which one?” he asked.

Vesna was very disapproving, “The Wild Woman of Waking Sea.”

“Oh.”

It was a suggestive song with verses describing a woman’s “assets”, however the ending rhyme, instead of the bawdy phrase substituted, “her beautiful eyes”.

Rafe had been thinking about the Fish Pond. Rafe blushed as well. Oh my! Time to make amends. Rafe dropped his arms, but at the squawking of the seamstresses quickly brought them both up, wincing at the pins scratching his skin, “Moira, I am so sorry!”

Moira gave him a grin, she never did what he expected. That promised a lifetime of exploration, it did.

Rafael wondered what King Alistair had said to Moira when they left him for the Royal Quarters.

…

Moira remembered watching Rafe the night before. This event had been quite different from their first. It was at the palace of a very fashionable couple, a huge estate filled with costly furnishings. Women in beautiful silks on the arms of men in velvet and brocade. Men and women who had little love for the crown mingled with those who were ardent supporters. Politicking was everywhere. Moira had seen Rafe across the room with a number of the young blades surrounding Duncan. There was a feeling of satisfaction that Duncan had Rafe at his back now. 

Rafe, with his red brown hair in that old fashioned queue, his long interesting nose, his tall thin frame, and long arms leading her through the dances last night, and this. Moira had never felt this way about anyone. There was the knowledge that he belonged to her. Rafe was hers. Hers, to run fingers through that soft hair. Moira’s attention was jerked back to her duty when a catty acquaintance commented on her distraction. There were many guesses about this young man who was suddenly accompanying her “everywhere”.

It was not as though Rafe was unfamiliar to society. It was that he was not one of the up and coming, one of the height of society, and therefore, of little worth so far as the society belles were concerned.

It had thrown them all for a loop, and Moira was more than happy at that. She was overjoyed!

And then there had been the walks on the parapets of the King’s Palace in Denerim...where she and Rafe were becoming, Moira admitted it, a little notorious.

…

 

“Wedding night,” Rafe said obstinately as he pinned Moira’s wandering hand to the wall on either side of her head, “Wedding bed!”

Moira laughed, “Are you so very sure of that?”

Taking a deep breath Rafe regained some measure of control, “Yes. Sure of it.”

At arms length Moira gave him a confident smile. Maker, she was beautiful, even with her hair unpinned and mussed from where Rafe had run his fingers through the golden softness. They were on a dark portion of the battlements overlooking Denerim, lights shining through windows from the buildings below the plateau of the palace. There was enough moon for Rafe to see Moira’s face clearly. He cautiously essayed a genteel kiss, and when that was quietly accepted, gave another, more involved, “Well, maybe we can sneak away during the festivities.”

He could feel Moira smile, and she rewarded him with an eagerness Rafe had not felt when kissing anyone else. 

“Ahem, perhaps we could find a moment immediately after the service when they are organizing the guests?” he offered.

Mmm, that was an even nicer response and Rafe found himself saying, “Or behind the altar after the vows?”

Rafe realized that he was now holding Moira’s waist and her arms were tight around his neck, pulling him against her. They did not speak for some time, then Rafe muttered, “Very well. On the altar in front of the Grand Cleric!”

That brought a laugh from his betrothed, nicely breaking the mood. In good time, too, for Rafe could hear Moira’s body guard at a discrete distance, greeting the patrolling guardsman as he approached.

…

Since Rafe had been brought back to the present very firmly, he contented himself with watching Vesna and Moira together. He was pleased that they were friends, that marrying Moira would not keep him from staying friends with his sister. Vesna looked peaky though. Rafe shifted uncomfortably. He knew what Duncan thought of his sister, that Duncan planned to marry her. But it was not a confidence he felt comfortable betraying, even to soothe her feelings. Poor Vesna.

…

Rafe looked so happy, Vesna thought, and Moira too. They were good together. And she would not be dog in the mangerish about the whole thing. Rafe had told her that other men were noticing her. They noticed her now, because Rafe was marrying the princess, she thought with a spark of anger, and her chin went up without intention. Well, if all they wanted was a link to the Theirin house, then they could just keep out of her way. Vesna was not interested to begin with, and even less interested if she was going to be married as a political pawn. 

Perhaps she would stay in tonight. Perhaps Father would have some time to talk. Then Rafe made some sort of silly joke at her expense and pulled Vesna back into conversation between he and Moira. It was cheering, really, that they both loved her, and would not leave her alone.


	10. Male Bonding Night

Rafe sat on the settle rigidly between the two men feeling extremely nervous. Alistair Theiren was not taller than Rafe, but had a much more muscular build. Rafe tended to slump, or as Rafe thought of it “cringing”, beside the man although he was not doing so now. Rafe’s red brown mop escaping from his queue stood out above the three of them, between the king’s shortish red blonde crop and Zevran Arainai’s sleek blonde braids. On Rafe’s other side the Antivan assassin slouched gracefully with a crystal decanter in his hand.

“I believe,” came the Elvhenar’s accented but smooth Antivan tones, “That you prefer Dwarven Ale?”

A servant placed a clay mug on the table before Rafe, and another before the king. Zevran received a square glass tumbler which he filled with a strong smelling amber fluid. Rafe tried to unobtrusively sniff the golden brown drink in his mug, noticing with relief that it was sweet cider. Rafe took a long thirsty drink before he realized what that comment and the sweet cider meant, and the choking at his sudden intake of breath began.

Rafe looked wildly to his right to find Alistair, King of Ferelden, and the father of the woman who was planning on marrying Rafe, examining him closely. Rafe turned an even darker red. “Are you alright?” Alistair asked with concern at first.

Then, “Rafe, that sounds as though there is a story attached to it. Would you like to share?” the King went on smoothly.

Rafe took a deep drink of the cider, clamped his mouth shut, and shook his head emphatically.  
Later Rafe remembered thinking, “I am twenty years old. My voice will not crack when I am speaking to the father of the woman I will marry. And her Assassin uncle. Well, Uncle by courtesy.”

Looking sideways Rafe saw Zevran baring his teeth in a maniacal manner, or so it seemed at the time. Zevran was grinning, “The man simply needs a better drink.”

Zevran took the opportunity to pour a tot from his decanter into Rafe’s now empty mug, then doing the same for Alistair’s.

Rafe drank cautiously. It was brandy, he’d had this before, though this was not like the liquor they drank back home. The Redcliff tenants made schnapps out of local apples and pears. At least, Rafe was somewhat pleased that he did not choke or cough on the strong drink. Alistair asked him questions about Redcliff and some of the knights and tenants, and Rafe answered as he could. Alistair knew Redcliff well, had been a frequent visitor over the years, and had grown up there. Rafe was not certain whether he would have preferred his father to be present or not. Rafe found himself drinking as Alistair did. And as Zevran drank. It was child’s play for Zevran to top off the mug each time Rafe’s gaze turned to Alistair.

Zevran asked Alistair about a young man, a merchant from Tevinter who had been interested in Moira. Rafe took another sip of his drink, thinking that it was quite a cheering thing, this Antivan brandy. Rafe reminded himself that he needed to be careful to limit how much he drank. He desperately wanted to remain intelligent and in control. It was, however, too late for that.

Something Alistair was saying caught his attention, “Don’t forget the last one.”

Rafe looked at Alistair through a muzzy cloud, wondering ‘the last what’? Were they still talking about Moira’s suitors? Zevran quietly refilled his mug with the Antivan brandy. Rafe waited politely for Alistair to continue, but it was Zevran who spoke, “Ah, yes, my friend. Did you knock the dirt off the shovel when we were done with it?”

“No, I left it there. I don’t think he was quite dead yet,” Alistair was cheerful, sipping his drink.

“Were you expecting to have to rebury him, Alistair?” Zevran sounded interested in that idea.

“Well, dogs keep digging up the bits,” Alistair pointed out, “We have so many of them.”

So many dogs? So many ex-suitors of Moira’s? Alistair and Zevran speaking of ways to get rid… was it of bodies? Rafe realized that everything seemed to be pleasant right now. He felt like he was floating, and it was a familiar feeling. Some part of his brain was warning him about it, but for the life of him, Rafe could not remember why.

“So, Rafe,” Alistair turned to him directly, “How are you and Moira getting along now?”

“Fine!” Rafe realized that he answered too loudly, “I mean… we’re doing just fine. I haven’t been tied up yet,” now why did he have to go and say that, but what came out next was far worse, “And she hasn’t hit me for what I said at the Gnawed Noble, in fact she seems to think we’re getting married. Oh, I guess we are, since we signed the contract and all. So I think … well, we’re doing just fine.”

“Oh?” Alistair looked incredibly interested, “What happened at the Gnawed Noble?”

It was flattering that the king would be interested! So Rafe told him, “Well, I said that even the archdemon would be afraid of Moira,” no, that didn’t sound quite right, so Rafe tried to explain, “Because she can certainly take care of herself.

And while I don’t think,” Rafe began to wave his hands about, after first putting his glass on the table, “that violence is justified, I *did* call her the Prince who wears a dress, so I think I hurt her feelings. To be fair she didn’t actually break anything. I’ve only broken a bone once, and that was falling out of a tree.

Not,” Rafe wanted to clarify, “the one that Moira tied me to. Another one. I was much farther up when Moira tied me to the branch, you see.

And I hadn’t thought she’d catch me. I can climb really well.”

Rafe retrieved his glass and took a very long drink of the brandy, “This is interesting,” he told Zevran, missing the look of astonishment on Alistair’s face.

Zevran nodded his head, and Rafe couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. Zevran’s face seemed rather stiff. Looking at Alistair he saw only an expression of polite interest. “I didn’t mean to tell her that her little brother’s clothing was too tight. But you’d think it was a good thing that she doesn’t look like a boy in them. Not like a boy at all.”

Suddenly it seemed important that Alistair understand something, “Ser, Moira, she keeps chasing me.

Catching me up against the wall or the parapet and kissing and ...,” the words were not coming out the way he wanted them too, “I am TRYING to wait. But she makes it so har… “no, he didn’t want to use THAT word”, um. Difficult! She is making it difficult to be a gentleman.”

There was an odd sound from Zevran, a choking sound. Rafe was looking earnestly at Alistair, the man was keeping a straight face. “Sir! You have to believe me! Nothing happened in the fish pond!” Rafe almost shouted it.

“I believe you, Rafe,” Alistair said somberly, “Are you tired? Perhaps you should go to your room?”

Rafe took a deep sigh and leaned back, closing his eyes, “No, thank you. Here will be fine.”  
…

Zevran remembered that night, the evening Moira had accompanied her now-fiance to the Gnawed Noble, especially holding the young man’s head under the cold pump in the garden. There had already been vomiting. After would be the flushing of the boy’s system.

In the darkness, while Rafe’s ears were closed, covered by flowing water, the elvhen Scout Master took in a report from one of his sons. Truly, Zevran noted, the lad had an excellent sense of when to stop so that Zevran could allow the heir to Redcliff Arling to breathe.

“You have done well, my son,” Zevran put the unfortunate human boy’s head back under the water, “I am pleased. Keep watch again tomorrow evening. Good night, Zanno!”

The blonde Zanno, who might have been mistaken for his father at a younger age, bowed, smirked at Rafe being pulled out of the water again, and left nearly silently.

“Ah,” Zevran greeted Rafe, “Your head is somewhat clearer now, yes?

You will drink this,” Zevran held up a pitcher of water, “and then I will allow you to go to your rest.”

“Why are you torturing me?” moaned the Arl’s son who by now had lost any of the enjoyable sensations of being intoxicated.

Zevran clucked his tongue, “Foolish boy, if I were torturing you, you would be begging for death.”

“Please just kill me?” Rafe sounded hopeful.

“No,” Zevran said decidedly, “I believe that would run counter to your instructions from the princess, yes?”

It was with a sense of enjoyment of his own that Zevran had finally dumped the damp and miserable boy, clad in one of Alistair’s night shirts, into bed. The boy had gone immediately to sleep. Truly, youth was wasted on the young.

…

Alistair’s thoughts were about the fish pond. The Royal Gray Warden tended to walk about the gardens, both formal and kitchen, when he was awake at night. It was difficult to sleep now that the dreams were coming more often, and he didn’t want to wake Anora. The King had heard the pair of them approaching from a great distance, and faded back into the shadows. It had been a long time since those skills had been put to use. Sneaking along after the pair of them felt good, though Moira should have noticed him after all of Zevran’s training. 

Obviously though her mind was more on the boy she was leading by the hand. “Really? You have a place we can swim?” Rafe’s voice carried, though he was at least attempting to be quiet.

“Well, the thought of the Drakon was disgusting to you, the harbor disgusts even me, and there’s no way we can get to the shore at this time of night.

I hadn’t realized that you wouldn’t need a fish pond at RedCliff,” Moira was laughing.

“Well, I’m spoiled by having Lake Calenhad right there,” Rafe was laughing too, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“It’s too hot! I wish we had the lake to just jump into!” Moira was clearly mimicking him, “All this dancing!

Will we be jumping into the lake afterward when we throw parties at Redcliff?”

“Who knows!” Rafe threw his arms wide, a tall thin shadow in the darkness, “Anything is possible!”

They had reached the fish pond. “I just realized something,” Rafe said thoughtfully, “We … um... we can’t swim together, Moira. We don’t have anything to wear!”

“What do you wear when you swim with Vesna?” Moira couldn’t picture them both swimming naked.

“We have tunics and breeches on if we’re swimming in mixed company, otherwise we don’t wear anything,” Rafe sounded abashed.

“Well, we can wear our smalls, Rafe,” Moira pointed out, “I have a chemise on, so that’s something.”

Alistair had closed his eyes and ground his teeth. Wet frock. On his daughter. Very much not the thing he wanted anyone to be looking at. More quickly than he expected or wanted to think on the pair of them were splashing into the fish pond, and then there was a whoop as Moira seemingly went under. To be rescued by Rafe. Then laughter, quiet talking that was too intense and intimate to Alistair’s way of thinking, and then he could not stand it any longer and had to quietly speak, “Moira?” in an audible and disapproving tone.

“Father?” Moira squeaked.

“What are you doing in the fish pond?” it was impossible to keep a note of censure from his tone.

This time there was a squeak from Rafe.

After that Alistair found that he didn’t have to say a word. Not a word, not a syllable, not a thing at all passed from his lips, and yet the pair of them looked guiltier and guiltier as he escorted them silently back to the interior of the palace. Sometimes, Alistair thought, it’s best to just keep your mouth shut.

‘’’

 

“Is he asleep?” Alistair asked, poking at the snoring boy.

“My friend, this was just cruel,” Zevran looked at Alistair reprovingly.

“It was shooting arrows at fish in a barrel,” Alistair laughed, “But Anora did ask me to get to know my upcoming son-in-law.”

“I am thinking that Anora was not planning for you to get him drunk and interrogate him about his relations with your daughter. Poor soul, I had heard that Moira’s been pulling him into dark corners,” Zevran shook his head.

“Maker!” Alistair started to laugh, “She’s as bad as her Mother! I wonder if Celia trapped that Cousland boy the same way?”

“I don’t remember you having a similar talk with Bran, though,” Zevran examined the level of his decanter, “Rafael drank quite a bit of my Antivan brandy, did he not?

I wonder if he will acquire a taste for it.”

“We had more time to get to know Bran. So, what exactly happened at the Gnawed Noble?” Alistair took a small sip of the large amount brandy still remaining in his cup.

Zevran settled himself, “The emissary from Orzammar shared his ale with the boy at the formal dinner the night before he proposed to Moira. Rafael got drunk on Dwarven Ale, was probably already drunk when he left the palace with the escort of a guard named, ‘Carroll’, and they ended up at the Noble after a side trip through the Wonders of Thedas.

It took him some time to figure out that ‘Carroll’ was Princess Moira, at which point she dragged him back to the palace. This is about all there is to the story, Alistair.”

“I’m still unclear on why they’re getting married, Zevran,” Alistair shook his head, “Of course they’ve known each other since they were small.”

Zevran offered more brandy, was refused, and poured a finger full into his own tumbler, “What I know about marriage would not fill a page of parchment. I have learned through watching you and Anora, my friend, but there are times when I am as confused as you are now.”

“Well, I had help from that book. And all the things that Wynne taught me. You had training in it all. What did you do when it was time for your fledglings to learn about sex?”

Zevran laughed, “I answered their questions. Answering questions is one thing. They learned about it all on their own by making mistakes.

I believe the one thing their mothers and I were concerned about was that there were so many of them. We were…concerned that some might intermarry, which would be a problem.

They have promised to look into long term partners with care so that does not occur. After that, what can one do?”

“What can one do indeed,” murmured Alistair, then, “I wonder what happened to that book you gave Anora and me.”

A sleepy voice rose from between them, “Moira has a book... It’s filled with pictures. She has pages marked for when we’re married.”

Alistair’s mouthful of brandy sprayed across the room, and Zevran leaned back and laughed out loud. It was at that moment that Arl Teagan walked in.

**Author's Note:**

> Imagining Anora's and Alistair's children, and others, without TOO much forcing...


End file.
